Keswick Life

On July 17th, 2017, for the first time in 55 years, the southbound Amtrak train from Washington, DC to Charlottesville, stopped at the former Keswick Station, actually Hunt Club Road. Two of Keswick Hall & Golf Club’s repeat guests “de-trained” and were greeted by staff, friends and Keswickians Mr. Donald Skinner, a 37 year employee with Amtrak arranged the historic stop.

He was recently described by Dave Harris, retired Amtrak, as “not only dedicated, but tenacious, detail oriented whole never forgetting to take his eye’s off the “big picture” concerning his responsibilities of the position entrusted to him”. He continued, “Don is definately on of my best [Amtrak Heros]”.

Mr. Skinner told friends and Keswick staff if he was going to end his 37 years with Amtrak, he wanted to end it here with us. Mr. Skinner and friends have been frequent guests of Keswick Hall and Golf Club for over 16 years.

The Keswick Hall & Golf Club team decided to capture this special moment for Mr. Skinner and presented the video at his departure. We thought you might enjoy as well.

Looking Back at Keswick Station

The building Little Keswick School uses as a dining hall was once the Keswick train station. The train tracks used to pass close to it and curve around like the highway does. You can see the old track bed on Vicky Collins’ property. You can see the foundation of the old bridge across the creek, across from David Ordel’s. I believe they straightened out the tracks to their present line shortly after WWII. In the movie Giant, shot in the mid 1950s, the train stopped at the “new” depot, the cinderblock building across from Springdale.

Charlotte Rafferty told me, and I’ve also read in newspaper articles, that the train would stop next to the lower ring (the upper ring wasn’t built until the 1950s) to pick up and drop off spectators in the show’s early days.

– Barclay Rives

Mary Barbin called Peggy Augustus’ mother and told her she would be passing by Keswick on the trainand would like to see the horse that they had for sale. As the train slowed, Mary Barbin was standing on the rail of the back car, and after catching a glimpse of the horse “Captain Lawton”, she called to Peggy’s mother “Ill take him”. Another time, Peggy remember a group of Texans had rented a train car and when the train passed the Keswick Horse showgrounds (which at that time was only located at the lower ring ) , theTexans saw the horse showand made the train stop to go see horse show.

On July 6 the company announced their new look saying, “Our new state bottles and cans celebrate the homes of our breweries and the communities that support them,” said Ricardo Marques, vice president, Budweiser. “Since 1876, Budweiser has been proudly brewed across America, and this summer, we’re inviting local consumers to raise a cold one with us.”The bottles and cans with special packaging are specific to California, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Missouri, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Texas and Virginia.

Budweiser is paying tribute this summer to the 12 states where its beers are brewed, including Virginia. Starting this month, and through September, specially-packaged Bud bottles and cans will carry the names of states that are home to breweries. Budweiser has a large brewing facility in Williamsburg, Virginia, the Williamsburg Anheuser-Busch brewery.

For the special summer packaging, “Budweiser” on cans and bottles has been replaced with “Virginia.” The center medallion “AB” monogram has been replaced with the state’s initials, and “King of Beers” has been changed to the Virginia state motto, which translates to “Thus Always to Tyrants.”

The company’s Williamsburg brewery will also hold its first-ever open house on Sept. 16. Visitors can take photos with its world-famous Clydesdales and take a tour.

“Our new state bottles and cans celebrate the homes of our breweries and the communities that support them,” said Ricardo Marques, vice president, Budweiser. “Since 1876, Budweiser has been proudly brewed across America, and this summer, we’re inviting local consumers to raise a cold one with us.”

State-centric packaging the summer has also been rolled out in the 11 other states where Bud brews, including California, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Missouri, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Ohio and Texas.

You can find the Virginia branded beer on shelves until September as they are a part of Budweiser’s summer packaging Anheuser-Busch’s Clydesdales will make an appearance in Williamsburg on Sept. 16. (Photo courtesy of Anheuser-Busch).

September 16th | 11:00 A.M. – 6:00 P.M.

Please join us at Budweiser’s Williamsburg brewery in a celebration of local community. Get a sneak peek into the world of brewing our Great American Lager and sample some of the freshest Budweiser in the nation. Come on by to learn about our one-of-a-kind brewing process from the Brewmasters themselves, or just to enjoy ice cold Budweiser, live music, local eats from our premium food trucks, and a special appearance from our world-famous Clydesdales. FREE ADMISSION: All ages allowed — must be 21+ to enjoy Budweiser responsibly. Food and beverage also available for purchase.

The Roanoke Shenandoah Valley Horse Show returned to the Virginia Horse Center on Wednesday, June 21, for the second year in a row. Exhibitors took to the Coliseum ring to compete for top honors, with championship pinning taking place throughout the weekend.During this year’s competition, Ceil Wheeler and her own Callaway’s Brioni took home the tricolor in the ASB Ladies Five Gaited Championship. The reserve champion was presented to Phyllis Brookshire aboard Man on the Move for the class. Suzanne Wright and Fort Chiswell’s Wild Kiss earned the ASB Five Gaited Show Pleasure Adult championship, with the reserve championship going to Jennie Garlington riding Kalarama’s New Moon.

The horse show welcomed exhibitors and spectators to this year’s event with “A Grand Celebration,” an inaugural evening filled with cocktails and delectable hors d’oeuvres. Guests had the opportunity to mingle with community business leaders and influential government officials on the concourse of the Waldron arena. Held during the second night of the show, guests enjoyed an open bar while watching USEF Saddlebred, Roadster, and Hackney action. They also had the chance to hone their skills in the judge’s box with “Be the Judge,” a special opportunity to rate competitors and present historic trophies to the winners at center ring. The night concluded with great music at the lively after party.

Emma Jolly of Keswick, VA, and Mischief Managed rode to victory in the $10,000 USHJA Pony Hunter Derby, the highlight of the first annual USHJA Foundation Pony Spectacular at Tryon International Equestrian Center (TIEC). Jolly and Mischief Managed secured a two round score of 335 to capture the win. Leigh Ashby of Lincolnton, NC, and Onyxford’s Blue Magic finished in second place with a two round score of 326, while Erica Felder of Lenoir, NC, and Elegance secured third place with a final score of 320.Jolly and Mischief Managed, owned by Rhiana Hughes, performed brilliantly together throughout the two rounds, earning a 167 in the first round, before taking the win with a 168 in the handy. Emma is fifteen-years-old and trains with Brooke Kemper of Culpepper, VA, “This was such a fun experience. I think it really got the ponies and the riders ready for the finals later this summer. The big ring let you get them out in front of you, but then bring them back in,” said Jolly. “It was a great atmosphere to relax and just have a blast.”

Making just her fourth start and first attempt at the stakes level, Unchained Melody the daughter of Smart Strike was in control at every point of call in the $250,000 Mother Goose Stakes (G2), as she turned back six challengers in gate-to-wire fashion at Belmont Park July 1.Bred by Hare Forest Farm, which owns her in partnership with Hidden Brook Farm, Unchained Melody came into the Mother Goose offa two-length win a 1 1/16-mile allowance test at Belmont June 1.She broke her maiden first time out at Gulfstream Park March 19 and came in second going six furlongs at Keeneland in April.”The (grade 1) Alabama (Aug. 19) would be the next step, I think,” Lynch said. “We’ll give her some time and set her for that. I think she’s certainly stamped her card in that direction today.”

Hunt Tosh of Milton, Georgia, and Flamingo-K, owned by Ceil Wheeler, finished as the winning pair in the $50,000 USHJA International Hunter Derby at the Tryon International Equestrian Center .The duo were tied for second place after the first round with a combined score of 177 and turned in another strong performance in the handy round, earning a score of 200, for a total score of 377. “He is very new to us,” Tosh explained. “The Wheeler’s bought him for me at Devon this year because they have been looking for that special derby horse. I showed him in one other derby before this, so I am really just getting to know him.”Flamingo-K only started competing in the hunter discipline this year, originally coming from the jumpers, and his transition to the hunter derby ring has been flawless.

Photo Hunt Tosh

The $50,000 Grand Prix of Michigan CSI2* highlighted Week Two of competition at the Great Lakes Equestrian Festival (GLEF) on Sunday. Twenty-four international athletes went head-to-head in the Grand Prix Ring, but it was Sloane Coles who took home the first win for the United States during the first week of FEI competition at GLEF with Esprit, owned by The Springledge Group. Course designer Manuel Esparza of Mexico challenged horses and riders over a 13-fence serpentine in the first round, but only seven were invited back to jump-off after going clear. Twenty-one-year-old Kaely Tomeu (USA) and Gentille, owned by Siboney Ranch, produced the first double-clear round of the jump-off, stopping the timers in 40.930 seconds as second to go in the order.It looked as though Tomeu would take the win as the only exhibitor to go clear in the tie-breaking round, as faults were collected throughout the next four rounds, until Coles and the 13-year-old Belgian Warmblood gelding entered the ring as the final combination to jump-off. The pair galloped around the shortened track, adding no faults to their name, and crossed the finish line in 40.450 seconds to clinch the blue ribbon.In addition to her winning title and prize money, Coles took home a bottle of wine, courtesy of Black Star Farms, and a gift certificate for a free custom portrait from Kristi’s Canvas. Coles was also presented with one of Bloomfield Open Hunts’ historic trophies, the Wayne State University Grand Prix Trophy from the historic Motor City Horse Show, by Dean and Wendly Groulx

Photo Sloan Coles

In winnning the Clement Hirsch Stakes at Del Mar on July 30th,Stellar Wind now has 10 wins from 15 starts and more than $2.3 million in earnings. The Virginia bred, out of the Malibu Moon mare Evening Star, was bred and raised in Keswick at Peggy Augustus’ Keswick Stables.

That’s okay, because we are. Just have someone paint their fence yellow and the community goes bonkers. People around here like things as they are. And if they’re not, they push and prod to get them back the way they should be.

When we first moved in, Anne Barnes called us aside and asked, “This might sound silly, but for years the orange azalea at your farm entrance has bothered me. It clashes with the purple one across the way. Would you please consider taking it out?”

Pull up a bush because your neighbor doesn’t like it? No problem. I quickly tore it out and Anne Barnes was mighty pleased.

And the community was relieved when the new owner of Kesmont painted the yellow fence black. When it comes to fences, black is good, white is better and split rails get a pass. But yellow? You might as well paint the Hunt Club purple.

Speaking of fences, there’s the monstrosity that goes beyond hideous. Someone told a farm owner that vehicles could crash through her wooden fence and kill her horses so she put up the ultimate car killer—a concrete fence. This thing gives ugly a bad name. To come upon it amidst the lush greenery and carefully tended roadside, is like rounding a corner and encountering Sasquatch. Ersatz clapboard topped with crisscross and festooned with pineapples, the fence is truly ghastly. Plus it’s the color of what you’d find in a diaper. And to make matters worse, a couple years after she put it up, a car crashed through it.

The Keswick aesthetic is throwback, definitely, but in an age of passwords and streaming media where change is constant, it’s nice to drive down a road where everything is familiar. The signs and plantings at the farm entrances are reassuringly the same, when a tree goes down or someone mars the side of the road with tire tracks, everyone gabs about it.

How fiercely protective are people about 231? Just ask the people who religiously hew to the speed limit. Have twenty cars riding your bumper for ten miles? Keswickians could care less. This is our road and the speed limit is 45–so live with it.

When VDOT announced plans to trim the trees along the road to increase visibility, the community went into conniptions. You might as well have suggested putting triple-track storms on Monticello or clear-cutting Lonesome Mountain. You don’t mess with Keswick.

Same when a past owner of the Cismont store let it be known that he was considering a huge Sheetz-style awning over his gas pumps—the outcry caused him to quickly ditch the idea.

People police their road frontage, pick up trash, manicure the grass and clean their farm signs. One neighbor hires a tribe of Hispanics to pick up trash along the roadway, another goes out on Sunday mornings and pulls down ads tacked to trees.

If you let soda cans accumulate on your roadside or your grass grow long, you might as well go out with spinach in your teeth or soap in your ears. People gossip when a neighbor’s fences look like they need painting and kibbitz about the new house at Clark’s Tract. Even newcomers, like the guy with the new house, understand there’s a Keswick design ethic. The owner even emailed me, remembering something I had written about the famous yellow fence, and saying he hoped Keswickians wouldn’t be upset that he painted his house yellow. I reassured him that yellow is fine for houses, just not for fences.

The new owners of a big farm put up a world-class entrance, with fancy stonework, extensive planting, even some decorative chains. While some road snobs have snarkily suggested the whole thing is over-the-top, there’s no doubt it will wear well and become an accepted and admired piece of the landscape.

Then there are the gates. When we first moved here, no one had gates. Now there are six. They are all nicely done, tasteful, and understated but they do change the road’s character. The neighborhood takes them in stride, realizing that like texting and hiphop, they are here to stay. But every time a new gate goes you can hear Keswickians wistfully ask, “Can you believe all these gates?”

In the two years we were building our house, we often talked about the how neighbors would react. Would people think a modern house would be tainting the area’s Palladian heritage? Soon after we moved in, we had a group of friends over for cocktails, Anne Barnes among them. Would Keswick’s leading aesthetician look down her nose at our house? Sitting in the living room, Anne surveyed our new digs and pronounced, “Well, I couldn’t live in it, but I kind of like it.”

And recently we were concerned about the community reaction to the new light posts and plantings we were putting in at the entrance to Chopping Bottom so Annie and I were and were relieved when people reacted positively.

Your farm entrance is your face to the world. And the last thing you want is to have egg on it.

Travel, why do we do it, to see other sights, broaden our minds, and learn new ways of being, or for the fun and novelty? Ever since my son John returned from a trip to Uganda last summer, he has been asking me to go back with him. I didn’t understand until I got there, he had been joking. He never expected me to take him up on his request. The joke turned out to be on him.

When he first told me of his plans to visit Uganda I asked an incredulous why? For a man content most times to let a few well-chosen words suffice as an answer, he only shrugged a reply. I, more loquacious by a factor of ten, found myself also bereft of words when the same question was put to me a year later. A mysterious primal urge defied explanation while drawing my interest.

Two previous trips to Africa, was as different from this latest as Zwieback is to banana bread. They set a stage for extraordinary contrasts. When we considered visiting this intriguing continent we chose a tour. It was the antithesis to Hubs and my usual wandering around in foreign parts. But seemed the safest way to avert a disaster.

I met lots of chambermaids, guides, bartenders and support staff on that trip. I never once left a compound or strayed out into a street without a cadre of minders. Everyone was jovial, charming and likable. The same qualities, undoubtedly that got them their jobs rather than exemplifying the citizenry of a country.

With no agenda or tour-guide nipping at my heels, I looked forward to seeing the sights. I found myself both exhilarated and terrified. That is until Church greeted us at the airport. A younger sister bestowed the moniker finding her sibling’s name a challenge. Church Fridaus, a friend John, made on his last stay appointed herself our guide. She also acted as a representative of the Ugandan chamber of commerce. According to our wig-bedecked docent, (to give herself more cred) for a white person to be in Kampala unaided by an African amounted to a suicide mission. John and I impressed upon her that she should lose the wig straight away before we set about to disprove her suicide theory.

Since my view of the city appeared to be a labyrinth of clogged streets and menacing motorcyclists, I couldn’t argue. My princess-and-the-pea sensibilities recoiled when I first laid eyes on my Ugandan lodgings. Used as I was to several more stars in the ratings and loft in the mattresses. Kampala met all the criteria for an exotic city. My interpretation of the word runs more to romance, delicious foods, and extraordinary sights. The traffic alone negated any romance Jambs are a way of life. On time, is a western concept. Clouts of frustrated tourist stand looking at their watches. Meanwhile Africans and expats arrive without apology when they do.

Mass transit does not exist. By default the job comes in the form of thousands of motorcycle taxis. They swarm like hornets through and around traffic. Boda-bodas, as the taxis are called, are the only way to get from point A to point B on time. Safety, however, is an issue when using this form of transportation. They drive on either side of the road, on sidewalks, weave in and around traffic and never stop at a light. Boda-bodas were off limits to us white folk. Though our keeper hopped aboard one, if Kenny the driver was missing in action.

As we sat in the interminable traffic, a constant reframe of careful emanated from our over-cautious-hostess. I don’t know if Church has a larcenous soul or a vivid imagination. She saw cell phones plucked from unsuspecting hands, while on a boda-bodas, standing at street corners, or sitting in a car in a traffic snarl. Despite all the dire warnings, we brandished our phones about filming the cityscape. Neither of us lost our cells even while filming aboard the dreaded boda-bodas.

After two days of no so great western style restaurants, I suggested we try an African one. Had that first meal been my sole foray into African cuisine I would have delighted in the subtle tastes and flavors. As meals turned out, I experienced a preponderance of African food in my seventeen-day stay. The problem, whether for lunch or dinner was the monotony. The only variance in the menu was the choice between goat or chicken with steamed bananas, white rice, plantains, beans, Irish (white potatoes), vegetable gravy and fruit for dessert.

The fruit could not have been more delicious, especially the pineapple. It became my go to breakfast. I never thought of myself as a picky eater (as a friend once said “we’ll eat anything look at us!”). That is until I bit into a commercially grown hard-boiled Ugandan chicken egg. I had a strange sensation of what’s-wrong-here when I took a bite and noticed nothing but white. Wondering how an egg could be yolkless, I inspected further to find the yolk to be the same hue as the white. Odd as it was, I hardly suspected the color would affect the taste. As I started in on my second bite of egg, I began to gag. A person at the table across from me had that moment noshed into a similarly cooked egg with a gray yolk.

Church and her husband Geoffrey work in the slums. They keep tabs on several woman and their children. Many men in Uganda marry, produce children, move on to another wife and make more children. Since most lack jobs, few support the women and children they left. The Kampala slums have a disproportionate amount of single mothers in residence because of this. When I was invited to visit the slums with Geoffrey and Church, I wanted to find a reason, and I assure you any would do, not to go.

I couldn’t fathom being in the squalor an African slum conjured up. Seeing children no more than four-year-olds begging in the streets with their month’s-old siblings strapped to their backs was mind-boggling enough. Having been a single mother the stories of the families the two shepherded were especially heart breaking. It didn’t allay my dread that I needed to have a police escort equipped with AK-47s.

Every square inch of the place assaulted my senses. Mud huts crammed into each other among more filth than I could ever have imagined. I went into several homes and met countless children. I came away awed by the kindness and joie de vivre exuding from so unlikely a place. There is more discontent on street corners in the United States than I saw in that slum. I’m glad I couldn’t find an excuse not to go.

A few days later we went to the Kampala Home for the Handicapped. Church whispered to me as we approached the grounds that even she couldn’t work here. I shuttered then steeled myself for a magnitude of horror and sad circumstances. If this angel of misery couldn’t handle what was in store how was I?

I had no idea how many afflictions disabled encompassed. Nor did I know that some of the afflictions I saw there existed. In a few minutes the scales fell from my eyes and as I looked past the handicap at the unmistakable joy for life the children possessed. Someone asked a volunteer how she kept from being depressed. She responded, “How could I get depressed?” The attitude of gratitude that permeated the school was palpable.

Though my body might have wished for a more varied menu while I was there, I left Africa with my soul fed.

Ken Stein, Executive Director for The League of Historic American Theatres; Maran Garland, Director of Marketing for The Paramount Theater; Chris Eure, Executive Director for The Paramount Theater; David Gies, Board Member for The Paramount Theater; Chris Faulkner, Major Gifts Officer for The Paramount Theater; Jana Gies, wife of Board Member David Gies for The Paramount Theater; Jeffrey Gabel, Founding Executive Director for the Majestic Theater, Gettysburg PA, and Chair of the Board for The League of Historic American Theatres.

The historic Paramount Theater of Charlottesville, Virginia was named the 2017 Outstanding Historic Theatre by the League of Historic American Theatres on Tuesday, July 18, 2017 in Los Angeles, California.

“We could not be more honored to receive this very distinguished award from The League of Historic American Theatres. Our pride for our Theater being recognized with this honor shines through every seat in the auditorium, every smile on a patron’s face, and every glimmer of excitement in a child’s eye when they see an event on stage. None of this would be possible without the foresight of those who saved and restored our beautiful Theater. To be recognized nationally as The Outstanding Historic Theatre for 2017 by such a prestigious organization, is an honor we share with our community and we plan to celebrate this honor with you all this season!” Chris Eure, Executive Director.

Founded in 1976 by 42 theaters across the country, which has grown to more than 350 historic theaters with more than 1,000 individual members, the League of Historic American Theaters (LHAT) is a non-profit organization with the mission to champion the preservation, restoration, and operation of historic theaters across North America for the benefit of their communities and future generations.

The Outstanding Historic Theatre Award recognizes a theater that demonstrates excellence through its community impact, quality of program and services, and quality of the restoration or rehabilitation of its historic structure. Former winners of this prestigious award include the distinguished Fabulous Fox in Atlanta, the New York City Center, the Mayo Performing Arts Center in Morristown, New Jersey, and Playhouse Square in Cleveland, Ohio to name a few. CLICK HERE to view a full list of Outstanding Historic Theatre Award winners.

The award was presented to the Executive Director of The Paramount Theater, Chris Eure, at the League’s 41st Annual Conference which took place in Los Angeles, California, July 16 – 19. The honor of the award received carries significant respect and excitement from colleagues in the arts world.

We are in the middle of the dog days of summer and while I encouraged you to explore other lands last month, this month I want to discuss a few books that ask you to explore your beliefs and expand your understanding of other religions.

Summer is the perfect time to slow down and go within and this time of year poetry really calls to me. Try The Illustrated Rumi: a Treasury of Wisdom form the Poet of the Soul by Dunn, Mascetti and Nicholson. If you have never read Rumi you will be in for a treat! This books not only has beautiful illustrations but it is a mix of story and poetry that give you a look into the Arabic world of Sufism.Here is a small taste of the poetry…perfect as you head to the beach:

Silence lies in the ocean

While words flow through the river

The ocean waits for you, don’t wait for the river.

Look to the ocean and watch its message,

It will come, it will come.

Along those same lines another Sufi exploration is Physicians of the Heart: A Sufi View of the Ninety-nine Names of Allah by Wali Ali Meyer, Bilal Hyde, Faisal Muqaddam and Shabda Kahn. Whether you are Muslim or Christian or any other religion there is something beautiful about looking at the different aspects of God and how each aspect of God touches us.I am studying one name each day this summer and it is a beautiful way to start each morning. This book is beautifully organized so you will understand the groupings of the names and why balancing one name with the other is so important.

For Lovers of God Everywhere: Poems of the Christian Mystic by Roger Housden is a beautiful and transformational book that you might want to always keep with you.I find myself opening it up whenever I have a spare moment…and perusing the inspirational and thoughtful poetry and prayers.One page has the prayer or poem while the facing page has a commentary of the writing or the author. It’s a lovely book to relax with in the long afternoons when you are perhaps too tired or hot to read anything lengthy.

Another beautiful book that connects you to God within nature is John O’Donohue’s To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings. I am not one who can just come up with blessings on the spur so I am always drawn to those who can create beautiful blessings that stir the heart.O’Donohue is by far my favorite. I adore his writing and I always find inspiration is his books, including Anam Cara which I have reviewed in the past. Celtic Christianity has a special place in my heart so Ialways return to this book when I need comfort or inspiration. Some of the blessings seem especially fitting for the summer. Here is a portion from In Praise of Water:

Water: vehicle and idiom

Of all the inner voyaging

That keeps us alive

Blessed be water,

Our first mother.

And from For Eros

May the words of love

Reach you and fluster

Your held self,

The way a silhouette of breeze

Excites the meadow.

Perhaps poetry doesn’t really do it for you….that’s ok…I have one more book that is a bit more standard.Currently there are several biographies out there of Bonhoeffer and I recently read one called Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy by Eric Metaxas which will expand your awareness of this fascinating pastor who stood against the Nazi Regime in the 1930s.His bravery in standing up for his beliefs is remarkable and since I did not know a great deal about his life I found the history very compelling. It will make you think about your faith and what you are willing to stand up for. A few Bonhoeffer quotes that stand out and represent this pastors faith in action…

“There is no way to peace along the way to safety. For peace must be dared. It is the great venture”

“Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.”

These are words to ponder as our summer this year seems to be filled with controversy and social justice issues.I do not believe everyone can be called to be a Bonhoeffer but we each contribute in our own way to the fabric of this world and that fabric can only be made stronger by its diversity. So I hope you appreciate all of the diverse offerings around us this summer and the more you read the more you can appreciate our differences.

The pursuit of fish with a fly has taken me to many far-flung locations. Frequently, even if the quality of the fishing has been disappointing, the overall experience has been enjoyable. So, rarely do I evaluate an invitation to fish based solely on my angling expectations.

This past January an email arrived from the Fario Club, the fly-fishing club of Paris, inviting members to explore the trout fishing in the streams of Burgundy, the famous wine region of France.The Club was originally identified with Charles Ritz, whose father, Cesar Ritz, started the Ritz-Carlton hotel chain in 1898. Cesar was known among his peers as the “king of hoteliers and hotelier to kings” and, of course, the hotels continue to carry that cachet today. Charles took over management of the hotels following World War I and continued in that role until his death in 1976.

Charles Ritz began fly fishing in his 20s, while residing in the United States. He took to it quickly, and became one of the most skilled casters and anglers in the world. His 1959 angling autobiography, A Fly Fisher’s Life – which has been translated into many languages – is generally considered one of the finest books ever written on the sport. In 1958, he founded the Fario Club (named for the brown trout), which attracted as members many prominent men, because of Ritz’s celebrity as an angler, hotelier and bon vivant. Ritz was the life-blood of the Club, and shortly after he died in 1976, the Club died with him. Fortunately, about two decades ago, it was resuscitated by a new group of French anglers led by the engaging and energetic Laurent Sainsot.

The email from Laurent described a trip that would include fishing the Seine River and a few of its tributaries. That’s right – the Seine, which I knew only from seeing it in Paris. Mon dieu! Would we be fly casting for old tires and dead cats? Laurent assured me otherwise, that the Seine originates in Burgundy, a three-hour drive from Paris, and that it is a charming rural stream in those environs. So, I signed up and was on a plane to Paris in mid-May. Like many French fishing excursions, it started with a lunch including several bottles of wine, before four of us – three Frenchmen and myself – left the City of Light and drove to the tiny rural village of Aisey-sur-Seine, about 20 miles from the source where the 500-mile long river emerges from a hardly noticeable underground aquifer. On route, we passed many large, beautiful fields of blue flax, which I have never seen in the U.S.

We checked into our gite (a simple cottage) was on the grounds of a fish hatchery called La Chouette (the Owl), and made our preparations for the next day’s fishing. Nearly all the stream fishing in France, and in the rest of continental Europe, is private. Fishing rights on rivers are controlled by individuals, clubs, hotels or other parties that own or lease the land through which the river flows. Sometimes ownership goes back for many centuries. Owners can sell a permit to an angler that allows him to fish on the owner’s section for a day or longer. Even someone who lives on the banks of a river cannot fish in it unless he owns the rights or has acquired the requisite permit.

The Burgundy region was once part of a vast, tropical sea which created limestone soils enriched with crushed shells, which in turn produced the zesty minerality that’s the hallmark of Burgundian wines. Limestone, also often holds underground aquifers, producing spring creeks (sometimes called chalk streams), which are fertile trout habitats. Some of the streams that we intended to explore in Burgundy, including the uppermost Seine, are spring creeks. There are also many spring creeks that provide fine fishing in the U.S., and in our region of Virginia, such as Mossy Run, Spring Run and Buffalo Creek.

If you are familiar with the wines of Burgundy, you may know that the division of vineyards in the Cote d’Or is very complex. This resulted first from the division of the estates of the nobility and churches following the French Revolution, and subsequently from the effect of the French system of inheritance. For example, the Montrachet district, where some of the greatest dry white wines in the world are produced, consists of 19 acres and is divided among 18 individual owners – some owning less than one-tenth of an acre. Interestingly, the last sale of a Montrachet vineyard was in 1993 when approximately one-tenth of an acre sold for over $500,000, which at least partially explains why the wines of Montrachet are so expensive, as are many of the great Burgundies.

The division of fishing rights on Burgundian rivers is not unlike the division of wine districts. A 5-mile section of river could be divided among a half dozen or more owners, with some having only a few hundred yards, or only one bank of a river. The Club’s purpose in exploring the rivers was to, first, evaluate the quality of the fishing and, second, to determine if permits for large enough sections of some rivers could be acquired to accommodate a typical Club outing consisting of a 10-20 anglers. Alas, as is often the case in France, other priorities arose which undermined the completion of our mission.

One of the anglers in our group, Marc, had an uncle, Patrick, a wine merchant who owned the fishing rights to a section of the upper Seine and of a tributary, the Yonne. Marc had persuaded Patrick to let us fish his sections on the two rivers. We arrived at the Seine shortly after 10AM, and our first mission was to survey the waters and learn where we should fish. Patrick’s section was quite long, 2-3 miles, and the viewing required us to follow him through farm fields to observe each part of the river, the flies that were hatching, where the fish were likely to be found, and discuss the appropriate techniques for catching them. By the time we were finished it was past noon, and Patrick announced that his wife Marie had prepared lunch for us back at his 16th Century house. We gathered there and he opened a bottle of Champagne for the five of us, raising a toast to our fishing success. We had just finished the Champagne, when Marie appeared with a platter of five different local Burgundian hams, and baguettes. The hams were incredible, washed down by two different bottles of Chablis, and then a white Burgundy. I was just beginning to think about where on the river I should go to fish, when a huge platter of beef filet appeared which Patrick said was from an animal raised on the farm. The wonderful meat was surrounded by a ring of assorted grilled vegetables and accompanied by two different rich sauces. Of course, a red Burgundy was required to partner with the red meat, then surprisingly Patrick strayed from his roots, and opened a lovely syrah from the Rhone Valley. I was beginning to reach a state of somnolence, when the homemade rhubarb-raspberry pie appeared, though the fifth bottle of wine carried us through the dessert. But Patrick and Marie were undaunted. Burgundian cheeses are renowned, and the next platter included four varieties, all of which were wonderful, with small toasts to put them on and another excellent Rhone Valley wine. Of course, “what is cheese without Port?”, and a bottle was soon opened. Over our repast, we talked with increasing exuberance of fishing, food, wine and anticipated outcomes of the recent unexpected election results in both of our countries. It was the longest, wettest, and most memorable, lunch that I have eaten. After finishing, we four anglers got up (surprisingly, without assistance), donned our waders and other gear, and walked shakily to the river. We began fishing at 6PM, eight hours after we had arrived. Among the four of us we caught a single small trout, and left for the drive back to our abode at dusk, having learned nothing about the river or how to catch its fish.

When we arrived back at the gite after ten o’clock, the Frenchmen insisted that dinner was required before turning in. I have forgotten what was served, but the next morning I observed that we had consumed three more bottles of wine. That day we drove to the other fishing section that Patrick controlled, on the Yonne River, a tributary of the Seine. Not surprisingly, we got a late start, and it was a longer drive. We arrived just in time for lunch at a small fishing cottage on the river, and I was surprised to find Patrick and Marie there to welcome us again. Marie had prepared a lunch consisting entirely of offal, cooked in the traditional French peasant style. The first course looked like ravioli, except that it was minced tripe and innards mixed with a stuffing, and wrapped in tripe. There were sweetbreads, liver and a few things that I could not, or was afraid to, identify. We were still recovering from the previous day’s Bacchanalia, so our wine intake was reduced to only six bottles, and we were all fishing by 4PM. On this river, there was a hatch of green drakes (a very large mayfly that can be found in the U.S., including a few streams in Virginia). Sometimes the big fly brings up the big fish, but it didn’t that day, and our group caught only a few small ones. But it was a pretty stream and, all-in-all, another fine day.

The third day I decided that the risk of eating lunch was too great to consider venturing forth with the rest of my group, so I stayed at the gite to fish the small stream that flowed next to the hatchery, then through the property for another mile or so. On my first cast in a likely looking spot, I was careful and faintly dropped the fly on the water. Nothing happened. On the second cast, I clumsily splatted the fly on the water making a commotion –a beginner’s mistake that usually scares off any fish in the vicinity. Immediately about a dozen trout rushed to my fly, fighting over it before one was hooked. When it worked a second time I realized that these were fish that had escaped from the hatchery into the stream, and that had been accustomed to being fed from a bag by a worker. So, my fly was not replicating a natural insect, but rather a pellet of processed fish food being indiscriminately scattered on the water by someone who views trout as a form of livestock. I caught a couple more, but after about 15 minutes became disgusted with myself, and repaired to the gite to catch up on my reading. My first fishing success had only served to put me in a bad mood.

On our fourth and last day, we fished a different section of the Seine, which was very beautiful. It flowed sinuously through open pastures, with long glides and a few deep runs. In the late afternoon, the green drakes appeared, and as dusk approached, the fish began rising to them. We all caught some nice fish on dry flies, which is everything that this angler hopes for. On the way home, we stopped in a small country restaurant in Aisey-sur-Seine. I remember a fine salad, and the best frogs’ legs that I’ve ever eaten, washed down by a couple of inexpensive Burgundies from uncelebrated villages in this lovely region of France, and accompanied by a convivial group of fellow anglers. There is more to fishing than catching.

We hope you’re in the midst of enjoying the first month of summer, now that we’ve put a pesky and sometimes rainy spring firmly in the rearview mirror. Summer’s officially here and time to crank up the grill, gather our friends, and spend the whole day outside. And though hamburgers will always have a special place in our grilling-obsessed hearts, we’re declaring this summer the perfect time for hot dog parties.

In 1987, the city of Frankfurt celebrated the 500th birthday of the hot dog in that city.

It’s said that the frankfurter was developed there in 1487, five years before Christopher Columbus set sail for the new world. The people of Vienna, (Wien), Austria, point to the term “wiener” to prove their claim as the birthplace of the hot dog. As it turns out, it is likely that the North American hot dog comes from a wide-spread common European sausage brought here by butchers of several nationalities. Also in doubt is who first served the dachshund sausage with a roll. One report says a German immigrant sold them, along with milk rolls and sauerkraut, from a push cart in New York City’s Bowery during the 1860’s. In 1871, Charles Feltman, a German baker, opened up the first Coney Island hot dog stand selling 3,684dachshund sausages in a milk roll during his first year in business.

The year 1893 was an important date in hot dog history.

In Chicago that year, the Colombian Exposition brought hordes of visitors who consumed large quantities of sausages sold by vendors. People liked this food that was easy to eat, convenient and inexpensive. Hot dog historian Bruce Kraig, Ph.D., retired professor emeritus at Roosevelt University, says the Germans always at the dachshund sausages with bread. Since the sausage culture is German, it is likely that Germans introduced the practice of eating the dachshund sausages, which we today know as the hot dog, nestled in a bun.

Standard fare at horse shows.

Also in 1904, hot dogs became the standard fare at the Keswick Horse Show. This tradition is believe to have been started by Keswickians, and others ,who had a love for a good wiener.

1 lb. hot dog

8 brioche hot dog buns

Turkey Chili

1 cup red onion

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1 1/4 pounds ground turkey

Split each hot dog lengthwise, and arrange split-side up in shallow pan. Lightly butter inside of bun and heat in pan.

One area where Martians and Venusians fall apart is money. While a guy might understand that he should pick his shoes up off the floor (but never does unless prompted), he’ll never get why women buy things because they’re “cute”.

A man would never buy a cute hammer or a cute battery charger, but set a woman loose in a department store and she’ll come back with all kinds of cute stuff. I’m talking cute purses, cute shoes, cute you-name-it, she’ll buy it. Even when there’s a hole in the financial bucket, she’ll come back with a load of cute.

When things get tight, guy’s wallets freeze up. I don’t care if there’s a new kind of ergonomic loppers with a revolutionary ratchet mechanism that promises to cut branches two inches thick, a Martian might pick it up and take a couple chops with it, but he will never buy it. Because his wallet is locked and he’s thrown away the key. He might note it as a future purchase and when things loosen up, go back and buy it months later.

Women, on the other hand, show no such restraint.

For them, right behind “cute” in the “got to have it” category comes stuff that’s on sale. Marshall’s and TJ Maxx have made billions because they know Venusians can’t resist items that are marked down. One retail slogan used to say, “If you spend more, you save more.”
“I got it at Marshall’s,” she says, holding up her thirty-fifth white blouse. “Look, it was only $13.99.”

“But don’t you have a load of white blouses?”

“Are you kidding me? It was marked down from $39.99—that’s a twenty-six dollar savings! Isn’t it the cutest?”
See, women like to shop. Guys hate it. Ever seen the look on a Martian’s face when he’s perched on a settee in some woman’s store waiting for the wife? That’s the purest kind of pain etched on his mug. Because guys don’t shop.

Instead, they set out to buy something they need. Fertilizer, a lug wrench, WD-40 or AAA batteries—and that’s all they come back with. They don’t come back with a huge bag and proceed to unload twelve items, excitedly saying, “Look what I got!”

In the guy’s bag is one lug wrench and that’s it. Because shopping is not in their genes. Guys would never think of wandering through a store perusing items. They go straight to the tool section and select the lug wrench, total time elapsed from entering the store to checking out, maybe four minutes.

On the other hand, if a Venusian sets foot in say, Marshall’s, she’ll wander down the shoe displays for twenty minutes, picking up and examining various flats, sneakers, sandals. Now you may get the idea she’s looking for something specific—but she’s not. She’s just shopping.

Then comes the clothes section, then underwear, then this and then that. And to top it off, there’s a whole bunch of aisles in the back with shelves full of random items. Crockery, trays, glassware, curtains, ice buckets—this is no man’s land. No guy in his right mind would get caught dead in here. It’s browsing on steroids and women thrive on it. “Who know what great things you can find in here?” the wife asks.

“Who cares?” the husband says, “I’m going out to sit in the car and listen to the game.”

And when she finally exits, she jumps in the car and pulls something that looks like an object from the world of Jules Verne out of the bag and exclaims, “Isn’t this amazing?”

“What is it?” the hubby asks.

“Oh, I don’t know but I can use it for all kinds of things. I can arrange flowers in it, I can use it to hold hors d’oeuvres, put a bunch of pussywillows in it—there’s a world of things I can do with it. And you know the best part?”

“What?”
“It was only $17.99.”

This is where you see the chasm gaping open. A guy would never ever buy some gloppy-looking, green china thing that he had no definite use for. Not in a million years. And when the wife asks, “Don’t you think it’s wonderful?”

He’s forced to swallow his pride and say something like, “I’m glad you’re happy with it.” All the while thinking, “There’s a total waste of eighteen bucks for something that’s going to sit in that closet with all the other useless crap she’s bought over the years.”

Once in a while I’ll slip up and go shopping with her. The experience never fails to emphatically remind me how much I hate it. While she’s zipping around the racks checking things out, I’m standing in a trance right in the middle of an aisle wondering what the hell am I doing in here.

“Go check out the mens’ sections,” she says as she speeds by with an armful of clothes, obviously heading to the dressing room. I’m looking at my watch while I’m wondering, “Why don’t they put bars in department stores?”

Give me a beer and a big screen TV and I might just get to enjoy shopping. Then again…